My translation of a poem by Atara Bismut.
They drip it's her... it's her... her...
We slowly danced together to that cadence.
In strange fields,
Now it's me and the rain.
Those nights are engraven as wrinkles.
The sun has mercy after the night,
How was it passed in tears?
What is left in our hands,
Those invisible scars.
Weak senses that blind you,
Self understood that you will never drift far away.
Those years of light, we call them yearning,
The single key to a thousand doors.
Worlds of dripping wax,
Me and the rain.
Comments
Post a Comment